Disclosed Deception
by Wholocklolly
Summary: A string of missing women covering a span of six years goes unnoticed by most, but not the intuitive Molly Hooper. Teamed up with Sherlock Holmes the genius Consulting Detective and Dr. John Watson, the trio investigate a man deemed innocent by societal standards, but a multitude of lies brim forth under the scrutiny of London's finest. - A Noire-type fic set in the early 1950's
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: The prologue to my new L.A Noire-based fic, to wet all of your appetites. I have more free time now as exams are done so I hope to shoot out chapters pretty quickly. I'm working on the first official full-length chapter right now, now that I have it pretty much structured.**

**As always, this is for Chandler, who did indeed help me come up with this entire idea, being my muse and all. So thanks lovely! **

**In regards to rating, it will stay T for now but might quickly be upgraded to M, as there might be intense/frightening/gory scenes coming shortly. **

******So yes! Enjoy and watch out for more! **

* * *

A sandy head peeked through the door of Sherlock's office. The latter man had his fingers steepled up underneath his throat, expression solemn, feet propped up on his less-than-cleanly desk. He was obviously deep in thought, piercing blue gaze admiring the distant buzz of a fly along the edge of a lamp.

"Sherlock," said the sandy-haired man with kind hazel eyes, and a less than ideal fashion sense. It was London, after all, but Sherlock found his friend's jumpers dreadful.

Sherlock's gaze focused, and his fingers wilted from their steeple underneath his chin. "Yes, John? What is it?" He of course already knew what it was. A case. He could tell by the slight lift in the corner of John's mouth, and the twinkle in his eye. Judging from his flushed complexion, it was quite a case indeed.

Sherlock let his feet fall to the floor and he grinned madly at his friend. "Oh bugger, you know. Case. Now get off your arse and come out and meet our client."

In something akin to a delighted prance, Sherlock Holmes came forth from his office, dark curls wild atop his head as he halted in front of a prim young woman. His eyebrows lifted slightly and he glanced to John, whom appeared to be quite enraptured by her. She was average, at best, but there was something about her that Sherlock couldn't quite put his finger on.

She wore a slim black dress and clutched a bag close to her person, indicating the value the belonging held to her, as Sherlock could tell it was not an expensive item. So what was inside was important. Her lips were painted a very light, flattering pink, her eyelashes highlighted with a minimal amount of mascara that served in making her large brown eyes appear even wider.

The woman cleared her throat, lips parting slightly. "Ah, are you Mr. Sherlock Holmes and-" she paused and her gaze flitted over John for a brief moment. Sherlock felt a twinge inside of him when her gaze quickly returned to himself, but he just as soon shrugged the feeling off. "Dr. John Watson."

John was usually the designated speaker, but Sherlock quickly cut him off as soon as he opened his mouth. "Indeed we are. And you are…?"

"Hooper. Molly-" she cleared her throat and got a bit red in the face. "Miss Molly Hooper." Sherlock raised an eyebrow slightly as he noticed her emphasis on the word 'Miss'. John was busy giving the both of them an odd look.

"Well then, Miss Hooper. What seems to be the problem?"


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Just a heads up, this is based extremely loosely off the entire story of John Christie, the London serial killer from the 50's. When I say extremely loosely, I mean the outline will be the same, but I'm changing names and outcomes and such to suit me. So please excuse me! **

**As always, thanks to the lovely Chandler.**

**Enjoy.**

* * *

With cups of steaming coffee, the trio sat down in the lounge room, where sat large arm chairs and a fireplace, as well as a desk with a crouching type writer on one wall, and a sofa on the other. The room was incredibly disorderly, but really, it was none of Molly's business, even if on the mantel of the fireplace there was a skull.

"Ignore him," Sherlock remarked, taking a heavy sip from his mug, a contented sound falling from his lips. Her eyes skimmed over him slightly as she sipped from her own mug, and John sat down at the desk, preparing to type, index fingers pointed outwards against the first few keys.

"Hmmph, so yes." Sherlock set down his mug on the coffee table, reclining backwards on the sofa and crossing his legs primly at the ankles. He extended his arms slightly and straightened the sleeves of his slimly tailored suit, refastening his cuff links.

Molly quickly grew a little self-conscious, and flattened down the skirt of her own dress that wasn't nearly as nice in comparison to the suit of the man opposite her. She watched on as Sherlock ran his fingers over his gelled curls, getting comfortable.

"I am under the impression you came upon some information quite recently that will help prove the innocence of," Sherlock paused and his eyes flitted to the ceiling, and Molly immediately recognised something in his eyes. Not ignorance, just… indifference. He truly did not care for this man's fate, whether it be ill, or positive. But Molly suspected this to be a well and true ruse. Something lay beneath the surface of Sherlock Holmes, but now was not the time to curiously hack away at his surface. She needed to focus on the task at hand, and her sparks of feelings would come later.

"Clark Grey," Molly finishes, smiling pleasantly. Sherlock nods slightly as she continues. "He stands on trial for the murder of his wife and daughter, Marlene and Phyllis, whom he reported to be dead. Later their bodies were discovered outside their apartment in a wash-house, of which Marlene's body was wrapped in a blanket and a table cloth."

Molly extracted an envelope from her purse and shook out it's contents in her lap. Placing each individually bagged photograph on the table in order, she watched as Sherlock sprung forward, gelled curls bouncing stiffly as he greedily examined the photographs.

"I myself conducted the autopsies. Both persons had been strangled, while Marlene was also assaulted prior to her death, judging by the heavy bruising on her face." she pointed to the photograph that detailed such bruising.

"Now Clark confessed to the killing of his wife, after he had accused one James Moriarty of killing his wife in a botched abortion operation. But if you look at his alleged 'confession'," Molly paused and procured another baggy, this time with the police report safely tucked inside, which she handed to Sherlock. "It seems rather stiff and artificial, yeah? So I'm inferring that the police fabricated it. But for what reason?"

Molly glanced over to watch John, who was avidly typing away on his typewriter, before continuing. "Recently, Clark Grey realleged that James Moriarty was the killer of both his wife and child, and despite the evidence Moriarty has provided in his favour, I believe there to be something entirely mischievous about his person."

Once again, Molly dove a hand into her purse and extracted a larger, thicker envelope, from which she procured hand-written pages and a few more photographs.

"Rhonda Chime. Missing since 1946." She dropped a small pile of pages with a photograph on top in front of Sherlock, who was perched on the edge of his seat and looking wildly interested at this point. "May East. Missing since October 1947." She dropped another pile in front of Sherlock.

"Both women unrelated in everything but a few instances. One, obviously, they are both of correlating gender. Two, they both lived in Notting Hill. And four, they both came into contact with Moriarty before their disappearances.

She was cut off momentarily by the ding of John's typewriter, and some slight noises as he changed the paper. "Go on, sorry," John apologised, and Molly smiled, sipping her coffee and swallowing, before she continued.

"Now the initial, Rhonda Chime, was a prostitute. She had no family in contact with her, no one that would truly miss her. I suspect she was initially hired for her services, where Moriarty murdered her." She glanced up to see if Sherlock was still listening. He was, but now she suspected he was only keeping quiet for her benefit. Still, she continued.

"May East worked with Moriarty. I did a bit of snooping in the police reports on her disappearance, and allegedly she left with Moriarty, and was never seen or heard from again. But get this. He was never investigated. So either money has changed hands, or something else is going on."

Now that Molly was finished her little speech, she swallowed down the rest of her coffee to satiate her parched throat, watching in mild surprise as Sherlock suddenly sprung up. "I have a few leads. Shall we, Miss Hooper, John?"

Molly's eyes rose slightly. "You want- you want me to come with you?"

Sherlock's eyes flitted over her, and she flushed, unconsciously smoothing her dress. "Indeed. Shall we?"

Molly nodded and gathered up her evidence, stuffing it into her bag and following the two men out.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Bumping up the rating to M now. Also, trigger warnings for this chapter; containing rape and murder.**

**Thanks to the lovely Chandler for being my beta.**

* * *

"It's really sweet of you to do this for me, James," simpered Linda, smiling coquettishly at the charming Irishman.

"It's truly not a problem," he drawled, smoothing down the lapels of his expensively tailored suit as they walked along the sidewalk towards his apartment.

Once inside and up the steps, he unlocked the door and allowed her through first, before closing it and locking it. He went around the apartment and drew the curtains tightly, turning back to Linda.

"Tea or coffee?" James asked sweetly.

"Tea, thanks," she smiled and crossed her legs, smoothing the skirt of her lightly floral printed purple dress.

James hummed slightly as he produced two cups of tea, handing one off to the woman at the table, the other for himself. He leaned up against the stove, his fingers dancing behind his back against the top as he pleasantly sipped his tea.

They remained in companionable silence for a few minutes, until Linda started up personable banter about visiting her sister in Ladbroke Grove.

Setting his empty mug in the sink, James bent slightly and procured a gas mask from under the sink, fastening it on his face as Linda curiously watched him, he leaned over and unfastened the bull dog clip that was attached to the gas pipe above the stove, allowing gas to leak into the room.

Looking back to Linda, pure delight written on his features as her face screwed up in horror and she began to choke, her mug falling from her hands and shattering on the floor. He sighed a little, always hating a mess.

Another man enters the room, wearing a similar, eary gas mask, a length of rope in his hands. He fastens it around Linda's neck, who is now unconscious and wilted in her chair. Spreading her thighs and rucking her skirt, he drops trou and strangles her as he enters her, unwelcome.

James turns around and refastens the bull clip, opening a window on the opposite side of the room, sliding off his mask. He hums as his accomplice finishes, muttering approval and pocketing his hands.

"Wrap her up, would you? And put her in that alcove behind the fridge. Cover it with wallpaper," James remarked, standing by the window and taking a bite out of an apple. He spotted a trio - a mousy young woman who looked a bit frightened and entirely out of a place, a sandy haired man, and another, taller man with striking black curls and pale skin.

"Hmmph," he murmured and chewed thoughtfully as the latter man looked up, and he drew the curtains sharply.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Thanks to Rocking the Redhead, ShareBearTheDeathBear, Petra Todd, stephanie arthur 1272, and of course the wonderful Channyfaith for reviewing the previous chapters, and thanks to everyone else who has been reading so far!**

**I'm trying to do a bit of relationship development with Molly and Sherlock in this chapter, so let me know if I've done that well! **

**Enjoy!**

* * *

Not long after they had even begun their investigation, the clouds swelled overhead and overflowed onto the accustomed England below. However, a short cab ride brought them to Sherlock and John's place of residence, where Molly was invited up for a cuppa.

Molly could see Sherlock's clear disappointment and obvious annoyance at the sudden precipitation, but she reasoned to him that at least they were able stake out Moriarty's apartment before the drizzle began. He of course didn't see the reason in that at all, and resigned himself into a pout on the sofa, which Molly found mildly endearing.

"He does that," John remarked, chuckling a little and sipping his tea.

Molly watched Sherlock for a moment, before pressing her lips together and glancing towards the rain fall against the windows. "I don't know about you boys, but I'm not letting a little rain interfere with justice." Sherlock snorted a little at that, but ceased when Molly shot him a withering look.

Slipping on her coat and fastening the buttons, she took in a breath. "Perhaps I'll have a look at our first missing woman's place of residence on my own."

"Hmmph, I don't necessarily believe that to be a good idea considering she was a prostitute," says Sherlock quite suddenly.

Molly raises a sceptical brow as she winds her scarf around her neck to combat the early spring cold. "Yes, I am aware. What of it?"

Sherlock is silent for a moment and she almost believes he won't answer, until suddenly he springs up, startling her marginally. "Perhaps we should visit her place of residence on another, more accommodating day. We can visit the library archives right now and do a bit more research on our James Moriarty."

Sherlock pulls on a pair of tight leather gloves along with an extremely expensive looking designer coat. Smoothing his gelled curls, he surveys Molly for a moment, and then turns to John. "I am not completely ignorant. I know you have dinner planned with Mary, and I am not expecting you to accompany us."

Molly glanced at John, noting how relieved he seemed. "Right, ah, shall we go then?" Sherlock was standing quite close to her, and her stomach butterflies were all in a tizzy. He smelled rather good, and Molly hated herself because when a man looked and dressed like that, she knew he would never glance at a woman like her twice. A woman who shopped at second hand stores and lived in a small flat near her place of work, living simple, even though she could afford to live higher. She was sensible and plain, really her only good feature being her hair, as it went in whatever direction the gel moulded it to.

It was apparent Molly thought quite lowly of herself by the way she walked, the way she spoke, the way she dressed. Sherlock didn't entirely understand the emotions behind self-esteem issues, but he did for certain recognise her to be aesthetically pleasing, and therefore was confused upon recognising how little she thought of herself.

To him, already Sherlock could see her potential, that perhaps to those she was closest to, she let her guard down, and became something truly wonderful. Of course, Sherlock wasn't accustomed to allowing many people in himself, but perhaps, he marvelled, Molly would be one to break that streak, as John had been.

Hailing a cab and getting one on his first try, he ushered Molly in, sliding in after her. Announcing the address of their desired destination, Sherlock leaned back in the uncomfortable leather seat of the cab, surveying their surroundings. He glanced to his side and watched Molly rummage through her purse for a moment, before zoning out in his mind palace.

About ten minutes later, pulled abruptly from his palace of solace, Sherlock tossed a few notes at the cabbie and climbed out, not bothering to wait for Molly, instead just walking on ahead. It was still raining, but he couldn't be bothered to pull out an umbrella, whereas Molly was scrambling to keep her gelled curls dry.

As they entered the building that held the records of the past and present, Molly stuck close to Sherlock's side. Once they were pointed in direction of the 'M' section, Molly began to filter through in an attempt to find Moriarty. But, Molly found nothing.

Confused and a little disoriented, Molly trailed along the entirety of the vast section, detailing past and present persons. Eventually, she found a small cluster of Moriarty's, although none of which were called James.

Thoroughly confused, Molly conveyed her frustrations to Sherlock, who was busy glancing over the archive of missing persons. He too seemed a little disconcerted by the lack of record on James Moriarty.

He implored the woman at the front desk, but she too came up short when she looked over her thick directory book. James Moriarty did not exist, and he never had. Although, in the section where he should have been, there was a small cluster of pages dedicated to what little was known about James from the past year alone.

So who was he? Molly wondered this quite intently, but could not find an answer. James did not exist before a month prior. And so she and Sherlock left, as confused as ever.

Back at the flat, Molly brewed a pot of tea for Sherlock and her, as it seemed he was quite useless on his own. Still, he would not answer her when she attempted to speak with him. She wasn't at all offended; simply fascinated that Sherlock possessed the capacity to tune out the world so finely and delve so deeply into his thoughts.

As Molly sipped her tea by the fire, she went over the evidence she had already gathered on the previous missing women, whom were presumed victims of James Moriarty, or whomever he actually was.

Molly pondered over death and life, something she often marvelled over. It truly amazed her that life was so fragile, how one moment you could be speaking and laughing, screaming or crying, and then the next, your life has vanished.

Molly jumped when Sherlock suddenly sprung up. "I require a view of the corpses of Phyllis and Marlene."

Molly blinked. "I can't. The paperwork's already been filed." She warily stood up.

Sherlock remained quite a moment, before he tilted his head to the side, almost curiously. "You know, that hairstyle rather suits you."

Molly gave him an incredulous look, but blushed, hand flying to her plastered curls. "What? Oh. Ah, thanks."

Sherlock smiled sweetly and Molly felt her resolve crumbling. Damn this man, this wonderful man she had only just met, that seemed to be stealing her heart already.

Molly sighed deeply. "Fine. I suppose I can make an exception. For justice, yeah?" She led the way out the door, much to Sherlock's delight but to her own surmise.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: So I've noticed that Molly is totally becoming Mary in A Sign of Four. She's completely badass and helping them with the case, and Sherlock realises her value. Except this time, it's all Sherlolly. Yay!**

**I forgot to mention in the note of last chapter that I'm not entirely sure how they kept track of records in the 50's. Like today we have family tree websites and 411 lookups, etc. I tried looking it up but came up short so bare with me on that. I sort of just made the whole library archive thing up, considering it is quite realistic.**

**Thanks to EnchantingErika, Petra Todd, Rocking the Redhead, Silk Xiaolong, avatardsherlockian, and of course the beautiful, wonderful, FANTASTIC Channyfaith (man, I'm a total kiss-ass when it comes to her) for reviewing last chapter!**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

Molly quickly discovered that Sherlock held little to no social grace when dealing with others. She figured that was probably why he had resorted to flirting to get her to show him the bodies of the victims; he truly did not know how to ask nicely for a favour.

As soon as the bodies of both victims were rolled out, Sherlock became akin to a child in a toy shop. Snapping on latex gloves and shrugging off his coat, he reopened the various incisions Molly had already made, carelessly leaving them open for he to stitch back up. And when he thought she hadn't noticed, he nicked the younger girl's lung.

"What?" He asked, appearing almost sheepish. "She won't miss it. She won't be doing any breathing any time soon."

"Sherlock!" Molly swatted at him and he pouted slightly, flashing her the sweetest of grins "Ugh, you're going to get me fired..." She trailed off and Sherlock grinned triumphantly, pecking her cheek without even thinking about it.

Molly flushed deeply, clearing her throat and offering a baggy for him to carry his souvenir in. Sherlock of course didn't pick up on her blooming crush, already out the door.

Sighing, Molly stitched the young girl back up, whispering an apology to he r for Sherlock's rudeness, as if she would hear. Shaking her head, she wheeled both bodies away and cleaned up, heading home.

Later on that evening, she received a phone call from Sherlock, indicating that she come over as soon as possible. Thinking he had found a lead, she pulled on her coat and headed over to his flat.

Upon arrival, she bounded up the steps, only to find Sherlock zoned out on the sofa, an unlit cigarette between his two fingers.

Sherlock peered up when Molly came to a curious stop in front of the sofa. "Oh good. Can you light this?" The way he uttered it, it wasn't a question.

Molly huffed a little and picked up the small pouch of matches that were just a few centimetres out of reach from where Sherlock was laid down.

"Is this why you asked me-" she stopped. "/Told/ me to come over? So I could light your cigarette?" She swiped a match against the bumpy strip along the side of the pouch, leaning forward and lifting the enflamed match to the end, watching the embers ignite. Waiting to blow out the match, she sat down beside him and picked a cigarette from the package laid on his chest.

Just as she was about to light it, Sherlock added, "Smoking is bad for you." Before taking a long, contradictory drag on his cancer stick.

Molly glanced from the cigarette in her hand to Sherlock, before popping it back into the package and blowing out the match. "Then why do you do it?"

Sherlock took another long drag from the cigarette, blowing the smoke out in the opposite direction from where Molly was sat, towards the open window. "Helps me think," he tapped his temple with his unoccupied finger, and Molly hummed thoughtfully.

Molly had only known Sherlock for the better part of a day, but already, he fascinated her. And annoyed her. And made her heart beat a little faster than necessary.

Sighing, Molly glanced towards the door as John came in, wearing a smart argyle sweater vest with his hair parted and slicked. "Oh, hello Molly. He's roped you into lighting his cigarette for him then, has he?"

Molly laughed a little and Sherlock grunted, blowing out another puff of smoke. "Yeah, he didn't even tell me. Just said to come over. Course, I thought it was actually /important/, but turns out otherwise." They both laughed at Sherlock's expense.

The phone began to ring, pulling them from their jeering at Sherlock, who was now pouting, having snuffed his cigarette in protest.

John went to answer it in the other room, and Molly couldn't quite make it out. A few minutes later, John came back, putting Molly's straining to bed.

"That was Harry. She's just gotten a colour television, and apparently Clark Grey's trial is coming on shortly. I was thinking perhaps we should pop over? It would certainly help, as I heard Moriarty is testifying."

The thought that the real murderer was testifying against an innocent man made Molly sick to her stomach. Plastering on a pleasant smile, Molly climbed off the sofa, going to wait by the door for the boys.

They were ready to go shortly thereafter, and all three of them piled into a cab, headed for John's sister's flat. Idle, pleasant conversation was exchanged the length of the ride, and upon arrival, John insisted he pay for the fee. Meanwhile, Sherlock remained silent, not at all even offering to chip in.

Rolling her eyes, Molly slipped a few notes into John's back pocket as she climbed from the cab, Sherlock following close behind as John lead the way to his sister's front door.

John didn't bother knocking, just opened the door and peaked his head inside, calling, "Harry! We're here!"

A few moments later, a woman wearing a red skirt suit with curved lapels came forth, opening the door wider. Her bright red hair was swept back, a white bow tied, holding it all in place. "Hello little brother," she had a bit of a gruffer accent, but she seemed pleasant enough as they exchanged kisses on the cheek.

John stepped back. "Ah, you know Sherlock." he pointed towards his friend, and Harry sent him a withering look. "This is Molly. She's helping us on a case. Molly, this is Harriet, my sister."

Harry's eyes skimmed over Molly, and she raised an eyebrow, lips pursing. "He_llo _deary. Please, call me Harry." she extended a hand and Molly warily shook it.

John sighed and shook his head. "Harry, please don't. You'll scare her away."

Molly blinked a few times, not fully registering what he was saying until Sherlock bluntly said, "Harriet rather enjoys the company of women over that of men," before pushing passed the embarrassed Molly into Harry's flat.

John rolled his eyes. "Don't mind her, Molly," he said and ushered her inside.

Molly was a little uncomfortable from there on out, but became more relaxed when they all sat down on the sofa to watch the trial. Sherlock became engrossed in it immediately, ignoring everyone and everything that attempted to actuate his attention.

Accepting a drink appreciatively from John, Molly watched the trial with rapt attention, feeling slightly sick when Moriarty himself went on the stand to testify against Clark Grey.

James Moriarty wasn't at all how Molly imagined him to be. She'd only actually heard radio broadcasts on the trial and he hadn't testified prior, so she hadn't heard or seen him. He had a rather charming Irish lilt, his hair parted and slicked back. He had large brown eyes and the way he carried himself, it almost made her drop her suspicions altogether. She _wanted _to trust him, but she knew differently.

The picture was slightly grainy but it truly amazed her still that she could view the trial without actually being there.

She watched as Moriarty gave his oath and took the stand, bolstering all allegations against Clark Grey and refuting the ones against himself. Meanwhile, John and Harry made idle chatter amongst themselves.

Soon enough, the hearing for the day was over, the judge announcing that they would convene the day after tomorrow for another hearing before the results of the trial would be given. The programme cut to an add for laundry detergent, and Molly sat back, her glass now empty, her bottom lip thoroughly worried.

She glanced over to Sherlock, whose eyes were closed, his fingers steepled underneath his chin in his famous pose. And then abruptly, he sprung up and walked straight out.

Molly blinked a few times, watching him leave in confusion, before looking over to where John sat. "Sorry," he muttered. "It's another Sherlock thing."

John stood up, and Molly followed. "Ah, perhaps I should get going then?"

Harry seemed to jump at that. "Oh darling, you can stay as long as you'd like."

Molly went beat red and turned quickly, escaping as quickly as Sherlock had, calling a quick, "Bye John!"

She heard John's heavy sigh as she shut the door. "Look now, you've spooked her." Harry only laughed.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: This is a bit overdue, sorry all. I've been working like crazy this week, and my brother and his wife are away away so I'm looking after their dogs. I've also been sleeping in to like two in the afternoon because I work until like one and then stay up until like five playing Pokemon with my brother. Whoops. **

**Anyways, thanks to Rocking the Redhead and the wonderful Channyfaith for reviewing last chapter. Ily.**

**Also, peetaholmes on tumblr did some art for this chapter, which I'll link on my profile.**

**Hope you all enjoy, and remember to review! ;)**

* * *

Molly heard nothing from Sherlock for two days. She was working hard to keep up with the lack of staff at the morgue anyways, as one of her colleagues had been caught in a hit and run and was admitted into the hospital.

Assuming that Sherlock, London's best, brightest, and most notorious private eye, had decided he no longer needed her assistance, what with all of the evidence she had already provided him, Molly made no attempt to contact either John or Sherlock, content she had already done her part.

Finally finishing up her last autopsy of the day, Molly punched out and collected her things, stopping at a newspaper stand to check for anymore missing persons. Apparently a woman named Linda had gone missing, having been reported as such when she didn't show at her sister's home one night, of whom she was visiting, and no one had heard of her since.

Molly made a note to do a little digging on Linda after she grabbed dinner at her flat.

Unlocking her front door, she pushed it open and shut it behind her, shrugging off her coat and flicking on the light.

She screamed, bag dropping from her hands, when she spotted Sherlock sitting on her sofa. "Bloody hell!" She squeaked.

Sherlock tsked quietly and stood up. He was wearing a trim tuxedo, completely equipped with a bow tie. Extending his arm, he held out perhaps the most elegant, and expensive looking gown she'd ever seen. "Language, Miss Hooper. That isn't any way to treat a guest."

"You aren't a guest!" She yelped. "This is trespassing."

Sherlock sighed and shook the dress slightly. "I would appreciate it if you ceased your mindless drivel and put this on. We are late as it is."

Molly's brows furrowed in confusion. "What? Where are we going? You haven't even contacted me in two days."

Sherlock shifted. "We have a yacht club party to attend. Now hurry along." She stared blankly a him and he sighed. "It is for the case. Moriarty will be there. Now, move along?"

Molly pursed her lips but took the dress, heading to her bathroom and changing. The neckline scooped down more daringly than she would have liked, the sleeves going to about the elbow. It was a sheer black with a crème slip underneath. Black flowery embroidery spilling over the bodess and down over the hips, and a silken black band encircled the waist.

She curled her hair in gentle waves away from her face and added some flare to her eyeliner.

Slipping on a pair of dark heels she had never worn before, Molly sauntered sheepishly out of the bathroom, a light flush creeping up her cheeks.

Sherlock took her slim form in rather greedily, and Molly felt extremely self-conscious. "Are you sure this is appropriate?"

Sherlock held out his arm and she looped hers in his. "For the daring, beautiful Duchess, it is incredibly appropriate. You'll only have to play the part."

Molly sucked at her bottom lip as Sherlock led her along through the door to a waiting cab, feeling incredibly nervous but also rather beautiful in this elegant gown. She vaguely wondered the cost, but was still reeling from the suddenness of all of this.

They were brought to the more upscale end of the Thames harbour, where a large and elaborate yacht was crouched in the gently lapping water. Sherlock quickly took her hand and lead her up the ramp where they were asked for their invitations.

Molly suddenly grew incredibly nervous, afraid Sherlock hadn't planned that much ahead, until he procured two identical, rather fancy invitations. The man smiled and allowed them past, gaze lingering over Molly's slim form, causing her to blush profusely.

Sherlock noted the man's intent gaze and pulled her almost protectively to his side, a slight sneer on his lips until the party host came to greet them. Sherlock introduced them both as the Prince and Duchess of somewhere she couldn't pronounce, edging her along towards the drink and food table.

"I'll be back in but a moment," Sherlock murmured near her elbow as she loaded a small plate. She hadn't had the chance to eat and she realised now that she was positively famished.

"Alright," she nodded and smiled, glancing to him, but he was already gone. Letting out a small sigh as she grabbed a champagne flute from a passing waitress' tray. She swallowed down the entire glass, reaching for another when she felt fingers encircle her wrist, pushing her arm gently to her side.

Looking up, startled, Molly nearly gasped and went bug-eyed when her eyes met with a pair of dark, warm brown ones. "It isn't a good idea to drink on an empty stomach, darling," uttered Moriarty, with his incredibly tantalising Irish lilt that made everything melt away for a moment.

Molly's heart stuttered and she breathed out rather sharply, grip tightening on the champagne flute. She quickly searched the growing crowd for Sherlock, but came up short. Looking back to the man in front of her, she realised that perhaps this was Sherlock's plan. Moriarty had no idea who she was, after all, and he probably was well acquainted with Sherlock and his detective work.

As the night wore on, Molly spent time with Moriarty, chatting and snacking, but she was forever on her guard with him, until a blonde man approached him. He whispered hush in his ear and Moriarty looked furious as he stormed away with the man, leaving Molly alone.

Letting out a gust of breath, Molly relaxed by herself until Sherlock returned a few minutes later. When she was about to bark at him for leaving her alone with a serial murderer, he set aside her champagne flute and drew her up, laying a finger over her lips. He tugged her along the yacht deck until they hit the dance floor, and she noticed the slow, incredibly romantic song playing.

Settling his hands on her waist, Molly encircled her arms around his neck and gazed up at him with wide eyes as they swayed. She knew how to dance, of course, but there was something so different, so magical about this, about pretending to be a Duchess, Sherlock her prince, twirling on the dance floor in a ball gown that was gorgeous beyond compare that she could never afford.

Sherlock locked gazes with her and she felt her breath hitch as he leaned in, lips brushing over hers. She drew him closer on instinct and kissed him back with everything she had because she'd known Sherlock for two days. But that's all it had taken for Molly Hooper to fall for him. She saw every side of him in that short span of time. He was greedy, intolerable, rude, arrogant and incredibly clever, but also kind and handsome and fascinating and he didn't even stop to think about what other's thought of him.

And maybe she was just a hopeless romantic but Molly saw some good in him. He could be sweet to her, and she right through him, noticing the underlying sadness in his eyes when John wasn't looking.

Sherlock pulled away, barriers gone for a moment before they drew up again, and his eyes were once more cold. The song ended and he stepped away from her, leaving her alone on the dance floor. Perhaps she was wrong.


End file.
